


Lindworm Women

by ConvenientAlias



Category: Hamlet - Shakespeare, Romeo And Juliet - Shakespeare, SHAKESPEARE William - Works
Genre: F/F, Fix-It of Sorts, Hurt/Comfort, Mental Health Issues, Murder, Ophelia Lives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-07
Updated: 2019-03-07
Packaged: 2019-11-13 06:52:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18026861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConvenientAlias/pseuds/ConvenientAlias
Summary: Juliet Capulet flees Verona to escape a murder charge. Years later, at the royal court in Denmark, she meets the unhappy Ophelia.





	Lindworm Women

**Author's Note:**

  * For [summerdayghost](https://archiveofourown.org/users/summerdayghost/gifts).



Juliet had known there would be no going back after killing Paris—no going back to her family that was, or her former life. She had thought, though, that at least she could be with Romeo, even if the two of them would have to go on the run. She went to Friar Laurence in the meantime, blood barely dry on her hands. A church was a sanctuary from the law. She told him to hide her and send for Romeo. He asked what she had done, and when she answered that she had done what she had to do, he treated her as if she had gone mad, talked about her joining a cloister. It would be safe for her there, he told her. She told him, send for Romeo.

But Romeo didn’t come. He sent back a letter. It was poetic, but not in the way he used to be. Before, his poetry had always praised her, caressed her. This letter was quite the opposite.

“ _You are not the woman I fell in love with, or the woman I married_.” Juliet wrang the letter in her hands. “What is that supposed to mean? Perhaps we knew little—but we knew we would do anything if it meant…”

And the rest she already knew by heart. _One cannot vow without knowing what one vows, nor is a sacrament sealed without full action of the will. I do not believe myself to be married to a monster._

“He calls me a monster for killing Paris,” she said to Friar Laurence. “How can he—I accepted him after he killed Tybalt, my own cousin! How can he be so cruel?”

All Friar Laurence had to say was more about how a convent could protect her from the law. She protested at first, then saw he would not be moved, and pretended to agree. That night she stole away with nothing but a small sack of supplies, knowing she could never return to Verona again.

* * *

 

She spent long years wandering.

In most cities she lied about her name and family. While she was not so infamous as to have her name spread throughout the world, the story circulated in odd pockets, and it was warped. Some said she had killed Paris in self defense, and in houses that knew that version, she was often welcome. She could not accept such hospitality without a quavering in her heart, though, knowing the truth: That she had told him to meet her in her family’s garden, that he had arrived as if for a tryst, that he had drawn near meaning only to speak, maybe to kiss her, and that when she had sunk a knife between his ribs he had been too shocked even to scream. Paris had not been a bad man, he simply had not been her husband. If only he could have stayed away…

Of course, some stories made her sound worse than she really was, saying she had killed not only Paris but her father, her mother, Romeo, Tybalt, Mercutio, any number of individuals. Some said her butchery was the cause of the feud between the Montagues and the Capulets, which was laughable: She’d have to be a couple hundred years old for that to be true. In cities where this version of the story had spread, she would hope to meet no one who knew her family’s looks. She would call herself Julia or Julieta instead of Juliet—the smallest difference could be enough to prevent suspicion—or, in places where it was too dangerous to be a woman travelling alone, Julio. And she was always travelling alone. There was no one in the world now who she even trusted enough to ask them to accompany her.

At last she came to the court of Denmark. She was unsure how safe it was here—there were tales of murder among the courtiers, even murder committed by the crown prince himself, yet Denmark was not known, overall, to be a country much given to be violence. She called herself Julia since she did not know how well known the Capuets were here, and through her skills of entertainment (playing the piano and harp, singing, witty conversation), earned herself a position attending to the queen. Not as a lady-in-waiting, exactly, but simply as an entertaining guest.

The court was an elegant place, very cultured. But it was also precarious. So many names one did not bring up in polite company. Prince Hamlet was one of them. Another, as she found out by a man named Osric’s faux pas, was “Ophelia.”

She was not stupid enough to ask the king or one of his friends who Ophelia was. She asked Queen Gertrude, one afternoon when the queen’s other lady’s maids were absent.

“Ophelia.” Gertrude sighed heavily. This was much the reaction she had given when the name was mentioned the other day.

“It is a sad name,” Juliet said. She had given up on thinking people’s names did not matter to their destinies; fate had a hand in everything, and names decided much. “Does it have a sad history?”

“Ophelia once loved my son, when he still lived at court. And he loved her, though he was always a capricious boy.” Gertrude smiled nostalgically. (Juliet had noticed people always spoke about Hamlet in the past tense, even though as far as she knew he was still alive.) “They were so close as to be inseparable in body and mind. Perhaps that is why when he went mad, she did as well. Though she had reasons enough without that.”

“Did she go mad, then?”

“My boy killed her father,” Gertrude said shortly. “Polonius was his name. A good man, if a bit officious. After the murder, we sent Hamlet to England, where we hoped he would recover out of the public eye. But when Ophelia heard of what he had done, she acted quickly. The night he left she was waiting on the docks. She had a knife with her, and she pretended she wanted to kiss him, and then she attacked him. She was pulled off of him—his life was saved—but she killed two men in the process, cutting their necks. It is a marvel she did not kill Hamlet too. But he was given the best medical attention, and his trip was delayed a month. The whole time he was in the infirmary he kept on laughing—though it did his injury no good—saying at least one person at this court could act in justice.”

Juliet tried to keep a straight face throughout the tale. It seemed to her that Ophelia’s attempted crime was far too similar to how she had killed Paris; it sent a shiver down her spine. Ophelia might be her better self—this Hamlet had surely deserved death more than Paris, for killing Ophelia’s father. Though, they said Hamlet had not been in his right mind at the time…

 Affairs in Denmark were far too twisty for her to follow.

She realized, when Gertrude looked at her oddly, that in keeping a straight face she had failed to show any sympathy. She cleared her throat. “This is a sad story all around.” It was sincere enough. “Was Ophelia punished?”

“Well, this was all some months ago. Since then, she has been locked up in her house under house arrest, where her brother cares for her. Laertes… he came back from the continent when he heard the tragedy that had befallen his house. He is bearing up very well. As for Ophelia, I visit her every week, and sometimes she recognizes me. Sometimes she does not.” Gertrude shrugged. “They say she is recovering, but slowly, very slowly.”

“I wish her the best,” Juliet said. Gertrude squeezed her hand, and asked her to play a merry song, that they might forget the matter.

* * *

 

Juliet’s position in the queen’s service did not allow her access to every noble house in Denmark, but she could finagle her way into most of them. When she spoke to Laertes and sympathized with his family’s plight, saying she wanted to speak to Ophelia or sing to her, and perhaps lighten her mood.

Laertes said in a wry voice, “These days she could quite match you for singing.”

“Then we will sing a duet,” Juliet said with a guarded smile.

“Maybe… Well, I spoke in jest, and I should not have. Come, then. My sister lacks company. I’m sure yours will please her.”

Ophelia was an interesting woman. She did not rage or moan, as Juliet had expected her to—in fact, when Juliet first introduced herself, calling herself Julia, she seemed quite lucid. She introduced herself as well: “I am Ophelia. Has my brother brought you to see me?”

“I brought myself, but he has allowed me in.”

“Julia sings,” Laertes said. “Would you like to sing with her?”

Ophelia frowned. “I do not sing, brother… You know very well I have given up singing until the true king comes back, and all is set aright… I will not sing until then.”

But several minutes of conversation later she broke into song after all, having quite forgotten the gravity of her earlier declaration. It was a song about gathering flowers for a lover. Juliet had not heard it before, and asked her to repeat it.

She looked at Juliet, astonished. “Oh, do you like my singing? Everyone else hates it. No, I should not be so merry—My love is gone, after all…” She began to sing a sad song of lovers dead, never to return.

When she was done, she whispered, “I killed him with my own two hands, but they all lie to me. I could not have done otherwise… I killed him with my own two hands, and he is gone forever.”

Her eyes were wild and dark. Juliet could see herself in those eyes, herself at fourteen (though Ophelia was quite a bit older), lost in love for Romeo and unable to believe she could live without him. She took Ophelia’s hands in her own and said, “So do all things pass away on this earth, and so is all love feeble. But fear not. Love will come again to your heart, someday.”

The words sounded true, somehow, even though in all her years of travelling, she had never fallen in love again. She had not believed she had the right to fall in love again, wicked thing that she was. But Ophelia was young and beautiful, and her sin seemed so small. “You will fall in love again, and you will be loved in return.” She took Ophelia’s hands and she kissed them.

Ophelia stared at her. “I am a murderer,” she said.

Juliet sat down. “Women fall in love with soldiers, do they not? Even though soldiers kill? And with pirates and bandits—it happens all the time. Well, so may wild women also find love. Have you ever heard of the story of the lindworm? I’ll tell it to you.”

It was a story about a young princess marrying and loving a lindworm, a dragon-like beast that ate everyone it encountered. In Juliet’s version, however, it was about a prince marrying a female lindworm. This was because although she was certain she’d heard stories of wicked women ending well, there were none that came to mind at the moment.

Ophelia did not seem to have heard any version of this story before, because she listened with great wonder. When Ophelia was done, she said, “But surely the lindworm should have been killed!”

“The prince had already married her,” Juliet said, “besides which, she couldn’t help herself, killing all the men before. It’s what lindworms do.”

Ophelia’s brow furrowed and she drew into herself, pondering the matter. Laertes spoke her name, but she didn’t seem to hear. She was in deep concentration for the rest of Juliet’s visit.

When Juliet was leaving, Laertes said, “You notice she thinks she killed the prince. We cannot convince her otherwise, and the prince is off in England…”

Juliet thought to herself that since Ophelia had killed two other men, it made little difference—though to be fair, it was harder on the soul to kill a man who loved you. She had killed a couple men since leaving Verona, self defense against attempted muggers, and it had never touched her the same way.

“…it might do her good for him to return,” Laertes said. “But it might make it worse, too. She might try to kill him again. I might almost want her to succeed.” He sighed. “I want him dead myself, he killed our father. But they say after she stabbed him, he told everyone she was not to face any consequences. Otherwise things might have gone far worse for her.”

“The queen says he loved her,” Juliet said.

“The queen believes far better of Hamlet than he deserves,” Laertes said curtly. He shook his head. “Well, do not trouble yourself with it—I should not burden you with my sorrows. Will you come again? She seemed to like your company.”

* * *

 

So Juliet came back, and came back.

Ophelia’s songs ranged from bitterly tragic to cheerfully romantic. When she sang of death, Juliet praised her music and told her stories both sad and comforting, whatever she thought might ease whatever pain troubled Ophelia at present. Ophelia appreciated her songs and stories, gathered over the course of years of travel and altered to make them more apt. And so Juliet appreciated Ophelia’s singing—only, it was somehow more unnerving when Ophelia sang happy songs of love, because often when she sang them, she gazed at Juliet with a look on her face that was near adoration.

At times like those, Juliet would look to Laertes. But while he certainly noticed, he did not seem to object. Perhaps he assumed Ophelia’s looks were only of fervent friendship, though to Juliet it seemed clear this was not so. Or perhaps he was simply happy to see Ophelia in love with someone who was not Prince Hamlet—he hated Hamlet very much, after all, and while Ophelia hated Hamlet too, she hated him in uneven spurts, and sometimes seemed almost to love him again. Any love, no matter how improper, might be better to Laertes than that.

For herself, Juliet found she liked when Ophelia looked at her like that. It was a lot of concentration to hold up under, but it was flattering that when Ophelia was actually present to the conversation, she focused her attentions on Juliet so fully. And she was very beautiful, and very… well, how to put it. The upshot of it all was that Juliet was beginning to feel things that she hadn’t felt since her ill-fated relationship with Romeo. She hoped that wherever this affair was headed, it wouldn’t end quite so bloodily.

Though, she really had no sense of where it was headed. Not until one night, Laertes left them alone on a balcony, claiming he had business to attend to. It was the first time he had left Ophelia and Juliet alone. It made Juliet nervous. Ophelia was so intense, and here, with no interference, just the two of them…

Ophelia put her arms around Juliet’s neck. “My brother has given up on protecting my virtue, it seems.” Her voice was wry and lucid. Indeed, she had been improving lately.

Juliet wanted to close her eyes and press kisses on Ophelia’s lips and on her neck. But, she thought, it wouldn’t be exactly fair like this. Ophelia was so vulnerable, and she knew so little about Juliet. “Ophelia,” she said, “you might not want to kiss me.”

Ophelia tilted her head. “You said last night I should put away old sorrows. You have sung me so many love songs—did you  not mean any of them?”

“I meant them,” Juliet admitted. Despite herself, she had meant them for quite some time.

“Then why would I not kiss you? Do not break my joy.”

“Well,” Juliet said, “there are things you do not know about me. I…” She sighed. “To start with, my name is not actually Julia, it’s Juliet. Juliet Capulet.”

“Huh.” Ophelia grinned. “Juli-et Capu-let, Juli-et Capu-let…” She seemed enamored of the rhyme.

“Maybe my name is not known here,” Juliet said, “but where I come from—Verona—it is known because I… I killed a man, Ophelia. I’ve killed three men in my time. And I didn’t have as good a reason as you.”

Ophelia, who had never accepted Laertes’ logic that her killing was just and therefore no sin, said, “So you are a lindworm too. I thought you might be.” Her dark eyes rested on Juliet’s lips.

“That might be too simple a way of looking at it,” Juliet said feebly.

“You can tell me about it later,” Ophelia said.

She kissed Juliet. She smelled of perfume, which was atypical of her—she must have prepared for this evening in advance. She and Laertes had been plotting, Juliet thought, those two… But she couldn’t resent it. Ophelia backed her up against a pillar, unexpectedly fervent, and kissed her with all the force of a thousand broken dreams slowly reforming themselves. And though Juliet had seen that force in her eyes many times before tonight, she was still too astonished to do much more than follow her lead as well as she could.

Sometime later, Laertes told her that if she wished, she could stay the night. She told him she must return to her duties as the queen’s attendant, and regretfully took her leave of the two of them.

* * *

 

So it went—but time was passing. Juliet had not planned on staying in Denmark this long. She never stayed in one place for too long, lest the past catch up with her, and she had no reason to stay in Denmark. Only now she did have quite a pressing reason to stay. Denmark, she told herself, was far enough from Verona, besides. Here she could stay safe forever.

Except for the fact that Prince Fortinbras of Norway was on the border and planning to invade, and would probably wreak slaughter through the nobility if he managed to break through. Which everyone said he might do at any time.

Laertes was on edge. He ought to have been on the front lines fighting. But King Claudius and his duties to Ophelia kept him near. He ranted about the political and military state day after day. Juliet, who knew little about Danish politics, nodded along; Ophelia, who had mostly regained her wits these days, offered what input she could, none of which seemed to calm him.

One day he took Juliet aside. “Juliet, our family has estates in the country. Will you take Ophelia there, and keep her safe?”

“Has Fortinbras come as close as that?”

He closed his eyes. “It’s not that. It’s Prince Hamlet.”

Prince Hamlet had returned to Denmark, and was nearing the capital. And in the delight of love, Juliet had been so distracted she had not heard about it.

“I do not want her to see him,” Laertes said. “She still thinks he is dead—talking about him upsets her. I want you to take her away until…” He trailed off.

Until Hamlet has gone away again? Juliet thought. Then she met his eyes and thought, Until Hamlet is dead again.

“Would Ophelia want you to kill Prince Hamlet?” she asked softly. “If you told her your intent, would she agree?”

“She would have done it with her own hands, if no one stopped her,” Laertes said grimly.

Yes, and see how she regretted it. But that was another thing: “It’s all too likely you’ll fail as well, and Hamlet won’t argue for you to be spared, nor are you mad. Do you think Ophelia would want you executed?”

“I won’t be,” Laertes said. “I’ll do it legally—a duel—”

“Even so, his family will not be happy if you kill him.”

“You mean Queen Gertrude won’t be,” Laertes said.

Juliet’s eyes widened. King Claudius never had a good word to say about Hamlet, it was true. They said Hamlet had made wild accusations of Claudius when he lived here, of regicide and incest… But to gamble that he would want his nephew dead was a bit much, unless it were no gamble. Unless Laertes had surety.

Come to think of it, this was all a much more solid plan than Laertes would usually come up with on his own.

“Do you think you can trust the king?”

“I think,” Laertes said, “Hamlet needs to be killed. For my father’s sake. For my sister’s sake.”

Juliet considered the matter. She folded her arms. “I will go with Ophelia to the countryside, but she can’t live with the lie that she succeeded in killing Hamlet. Tell her the truth, and if she wants to run from him and from this court, we’ll run. But if she wants to see him again…” She wet her lips. “We have no right to keep her from him.”

“You’re only saying that out of some sense of self denial, because they used to be lovers. Seeing him could never be good for her.”

“If she hears he lives and still wants him dead,” Juliet said, “then I’ll kill him myself.”

Laertes laughed. Juliet had never told him about her past. “Well spoken. Well then, I’ll speak with her, and we’ll get her blessing on the enterprise—she’ll never deny it. But if she cannot comprehend that he lives, you’ll away with her, as I said. This man must die, one way or another.”

When they told Ophelia that Hamlet lived, she laughed and told them not to lie to her. But before she could go into one of her episodes, they told her he was in the city now, and she could even see him if she liked. She frowned.

“I’ve seen ghosts before,” she told Laertes, “and you told me no one was there.”

“Hamlet is not a ghost. He lives.”

“Fine. Bring him before me, then. You’ve long wanted to prove this, after all.”

After Laertes left, she asked Juliet, “Is it really true, that Hamlet lives? You’ve never spoken to me of him. Not like this, at least.”

“Queen Gertrude said he lived, and Laertes says so. I’ve never met him, but I see no reason to doubt their words. They don’t try to shelter me like you.”

Ophelia shivered. “Should I kill the same man twice? Would my father’s ghost demand it?”

“We agreed there are no ghosts.”

“His honor,” she insisted, “the family’s honor.”

Juliet kissed her hand and repeated what she had said to Laertes: “If your honor demands he die, I’ll kill him for you. You need only say the word.”

Ophelia kissed her back, not on the hands, but on the mouth—confused, dark, and hungry. “Would you kill anyone for love of me?” she murmured, when they drew apart. “Anyone at all?”

Juliet murmured the answer in her ear.

* * *

 

For all Juliet had heard of Hamlet from Laertes, he was even stranger in person. He wore all black, as if in mourning—when Juliet noted it, he told her he was.

“I mourn justice in Denmark,” he said. “I mourn my father.”

Laertes said, “A murderer mourns justice—how ironic.”

“I never murdered your father, Laertes, only my madness, and that’s on our good king’s head more than mine—why, I barely have a head left for you to lay it on,” Hamlet said. He grinned. “Well, take me to see Ophelia! I love her more than ever: she is the only one I know who’ll stab you to your face.”

“You’ll speak no speeches of love to her,” Laertes said.

“No love to comfort her heart?”

“She needs no love of yours,” Juliet cut in. They were climbing up to Ophelia’s room; she stepped in front of him. She’d felt somewhat sympathetic to him, hearing Ophelia’s lamentations. He’d reminded her of poor, pitiful Paris. Now, face to face, no more—he was arrogant and had a twisted tongue, and he spoke with an odd air of possession of the woman Juliet loved. She scowled at him severely. “You’ll speak to her courteously and distantly, and not of love—else you’ll see more than one lady in Denmark knows how to stab.”

“I doubt you’re a lady,” Hamlet said dismissively. “Well, well… my lady’s bedchamber.”

They knocked.

Ophelia answered. She was in her right mind today, but when she greeted Hamlet, she stumbled back, face white as hell. Perhaps her being in her right mind was why she found him so shocking—doubtless she’d hallucinated him before, but here he was in the flesh.

“Prince Hamlet,” she said. “Are you really alive?”

“It grieves me no less than you, and I doubt I deserve it,” Hamlet said. Which was hardly a straightforward answer. With a sharp motion he ripped open his shirt before Laertes could stop him. There was a scar on his chest. He grinned. “If only milady’s dagger had cut more truly. But, I doubt my father shall let me join him yet—this apple’s not yet ripe for the plucking, though you’ve shaken all the leaves off the bough. Do not blanch, milady. Yes, you did a man’s job; for all that, I still hold you should have gone to a nunnery…”

Men and their obsession with nunneries. Juliet stepped between him and Ophelia. “I pray you close your shirt and speak more couthly.”

“Hamlet, you live,” Ophelia said. “How little justice is there in the world, that you should live while my father lies in the grave.”

“And my father too,” Hamlet agreed, “and my father too.”

Juliet looked at her. She had a knife hidden in her bodice. She could kill Hamlet here and now, if Ophelia so desired. Then she would have to flee Denmark, but it would not be the first time blood chased her from a city, and at least this time she had experience in running and hiding.

Ophelia drew her closer and squeezed her hand. “Leave me, Hamlet. If fate denies me your death, so be it.”

“Do you forgive me, then?”

Ophelia stared at the ground. “I think we are all of us lindworms. Farewell, Hamlet.”

Her voice was grave. Hamlet left.

“Let us all go to the country,” Ophelia said later. “That was your idea, wasn’t it, Laertes? I do not want to be in this city while he is here.”

So they all went, Laertes too. A certain duel was cancelled.

* * *

 

News of Hamlet’s death reached the countryside in a pack of other news: the death of both king and queen, and the invasion of Fortinbras. And a call for Ophelia and Laertes to return to the city. Fortinbras had conquered Denmark but he had no desire to rule it. He coolly offered Laertes the throne, like a trinket or the remains of a half-eaten apple. Laertes accepted because he doubted Fortinbras was really offering him a choice, even though the throne of Denmark was a poisoned place.

“Now I am a princess,” Ophelia said to Juliet.

“There will be many men trying to marry you.”

Ophelia laughed and kissed Juliet. “Will you kill them all, eat them all up?”

“If you want me to.”

“We’ll see.” Ophelia stroked Juliet’s hair. “We’ll see.”

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt of "Juliet/Ophelia, AU where these girls took the lives of others rather than themselves and then somehow found each other." I feel like this ended up much less dark than I intended but oh well. These things do happen. I almost spared Hamlet's life but it was too much of a struggle, couldn't bring myself to kill off Laertes tho. Shakespearean tragedies fuck me up.  
> As a side note, I hope I don't give the impression that Juliet somehow cured Ophelia's mental illness. That's not something you can do with love or logic. I was more going for the impression that Ophelia's mental breakdown was more temporary than it appeared, and so with the support of Juliet and her brother she slowly recovered. But I'm sure Juliet's support did help.  
> Anyways. Hope you liked the fic! Comments would be much appreciated. :)


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